7. Chapter Seven

Days in the cartel compound stuck to a routine. Before dawn, Rylan woke to the sound of engines starting up in the barracks below, the distant voices of men speaking Spanish he didn't understand. He'd burrow back into the covers and drift off again, as the bustle of the house arose around him. Some time after dawn, the door of his room would open, and a tray of food would be delivered. Rylan would eat, shower, dress, and then wait for…nothing to happen. The nothingness was terrible. Days passed in boredom. He'd sit by the window looking out, watching the grounds and the compound, wishing something, anything would happen. And then night would fall, and…well.

Today, however, things were different.

Rylan's stomach churned with hunger, the gnawing sensation growing more insistent as he waited for his breakfast. He glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned—it was already past the time when breakfast was usually brought to him. He'd already risen and showered, dressed himself in his stale clothes.

Anxiety buzzed through him like an electric current, making him restless. He hesitated for a long while before cautiously rapping his knuckles on the door of his room, wondering if Carlos had forgotten about him.

"Carlos? Are you there?" Rylan called out softly, his voice shaking slightly.

When no answer came, he tentatively turned the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked. To his surprise, the door swung open with a quiet creak, revealing the dimly lit hallway outside. Rylan swallowed as he stepped out of the room, feeling exposed and vulnerable in Bautista's intimidating home. He thought that venturing out without permission might earn him a harsh punishment, but his hunger drove him forward.

As Rylan wandered through the seemingly endless corridors, he glanced at the beautiful artwork adorning the walls and the ornate furnishings that spoke of Bautista's wealth and power. Again, the contrast with his father's house was stark. Rylan had never really felt in danger in his father's house, but it was…cold. Bautista's house was anything but, the light warm and buttery. Yet, with each step, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was trespassing in a dangerous predator's den.

He found himself in a narrow stairway. It wasn't ominous, just narrow. A servant's stair, perhaps. He sniffed the air, and it smelled like baking. So he went down, anxiety beating a sharp tattoo in his chest.

This was how he stumbled upon the large, spacious kitchen, its stainless-steel appliances gleaming under the wide-open windows. The scent of fresh coffee and warm bread wafted through the air, making his mouth water and his empty stomach growl even louder. He hesitated at the doorway, unsure if he should enter, but the tantalizing aroma proved too irresistible to resist.

He went in. A rack of bread rolls were cooling on the bench. Rylan reached for one and took a bite. It was cheesy, slightly chewy, and delicious.

As he swallowed, he caught a sound from around the corner of the L shaped room. He approached cautiously, but when he looked around all he saw was a small figure sitting at the kitchen table. It was Bautista's daughter, Carmelita, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders as she focused intently on a drawing laid out before her. Colorful crayons were scattered across the table, around a picture of a woman with a big, wonky smile.

Carmelita looked up, her big brown eyes widening in surprise. "Buenos días, se?or," she greeted him gravely, tilting her head curiously as she studied the stranger who had entered her father's domain.

"Uh, hi," Rylan replied, swallowing the pastry nervously. He could feel himself blushing under her gaze, his freckles standing out against his pale skin. "I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish," he added softly, his voice betraying the ever-present undercurrent of fear that seemed to follow him in this house.

"I speak English too," Carmelita said, her tone brightening. "Are you one of my father's workers?"

Rylan shook his head. "No. I'm…I'm Rylan," he said, unable to tell her he was a prisoner in her father's house. She was too young to understand, or perhaps he was afraid she would understand and turn out to be as cruel as her father even at her tender age.

But she just cocked her head and said, "I'm Carmelita." She glanced back at her drawing and then to Rylan, her expression open. "Do you like drawing?"

"I do," Rylan told her. It was true. "I...draw a lot for my job."

"Are you an artist?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with interest.

"No. I design clothes. I have to do a lot of drawing to get my ideas out of my head before I can make them into clothes."

"Oh," Carmelita said, looking at him thoughtfully. "It's hard to make the drawing look like it did in your head."

"It is. I like your drawing, though," Rylan forced a smile, trying to be friendly but also mindful not to upset Bautista's daughter. He couldn't afford any more enemies in this place. "Is that, um. Teresa?"

"No," she said, wrinkling her nose. "That's Mama," Carmelita replied, her dark eyes flicking back to the paper in front of her. "She's with the angels."

Rylan's heart skipped at the mention of her mother. So Bautista's wife—if they had ever been married, that is—was dead. He felt sympathy for the young girl but kept his expression neutral, matching her level of nonchalance.

"She looks lovely," he said sincerely. "You're very good at drawing."

Carmelita seemed pleased. "Do you want to draw something?"

Rylan hesitated. The absurdity of the situation came over him suddenly. Here he was, a prisoner in the house of a cartel kingpin, having a normal conversation with a very normal seeming little girl. The juxtaposition of the two was hard to reconcile.

Still. "Sure, why not?" Rylan agreed, trying to keep his tone light and casual. He didn't want to overstep any boundaries, but it seemed like a harmless enough activity.

"Then you can use my pencils," Carmelita offered, indicating the colored pencils strewn across the table.

"Thank you," Rylan said, giving her an appreciative smile. He picked up a pencil, considering what he could draw without getting too personal. After a moment's thought, he decided on a simple flower, something that couldn't be misconstrued as anything other than innocent.

As he started sketching, Rylan felt somewhat at ease in this small moment with Carmelita. Despite the horrors he had experienced since being taken by Bautista and his men, there was still something pure about the interaction between them—a brief reprieve from the darkness that surrounded him.

Carmelita watched Rylan's hands move gracefully, the lines taking shape on the paper. "You're really good," she complimented him.

"Thank you," he replied, feeling a slight flush of pride. "I've been drawing for a long time."

"Can you teach me how to draw like that?" Carmelita asked with genuine interest, her eyes filled with the curiosity and innocence of a child who hadn't been exposed to the harsh realities of life.

But before Rylan could answer, he heard the scrape of a boot on slate, and looked up to see Bautista in the doorway. He was jacketless, his sleeves rolled up to expose his tan forearms, and the sight of him took Rylan's breath away.

The kingpin's eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion and jealousy as he saw Rylan and Carmelita together. "?Qué estás haciendo aquí?" Bautista asked his daughter, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of danger.

"Rylan estaba ense?ándome cómo dibujar flores," she replied innocently, seemingly unaware of the precarious situation unfolding before her.

Bautista's eyes were hard as they fixed on Rylan. There was a cold fury in them that made Rylan shrink, his hands coming to his chest to protect himself. But there was no way he could protect himself from Bautista.

"Sal de la cocina, Carmelita," Bautista ordered, his voice firm but not raised. The young girl looked confused but not frightened, her eyes darting between her father and Rylan before she obeyed, leaving the kitchen without further protest.

As the door closed behind her, Rylan felt the weight of Bautista's menacing presence bearing down on him. His mind raced, searching for a way to explain their interaction without incriminating himself or provoking the dangerous man standing before him. His fear intensified, and he knew that whatever happened next would likely be anything but gentle.

"Wait, it's not what you think," Rylan stammered. "I was just—"

"Were you trying to turn my daughter against me?" Bautista snarled, eyes flashing dangerously.

Rylan shook his head frantically, the soft curls bouncing around his face. "No, no, I wouldn't do that, I promise!"

"?Silencio!" Bautista roared, and in one swift motion, he struck Rylan across the face with a force that sent him crashing to the floor.

Pain exploded in Rylan's cheek, stars dancing before his eyes as he tasted blood. His heart hammered against his ribcage, and he knew without a doubt that Bautista's wrath was real and worse than anything he'd seen from the man before. As he lay on the cold tile, barely able to move, Rylan wondered if this was the end for him—if Bautista would finally run out of patience with him.

"Please...I'm sorry," he whispered, his eyes burning with tears. "I'm sorry."

"Your apologies mean nothing to me," Bautista growled, stalking closer until he towered over Rylan like a giant.

Rylan could feel the heat radiating off Bautista's powerful frame, and he shivered in response. He knew that the man was a force to be reckoned with, a beast who demanded complete submission from those around him. What could possibly appease a man like that?

"I'm sorry," Rylan whispered. "I won't do it again. Tell me what you want from me, and I'll do it. Anything."

"Is that so?" Bautista murmured, his dark eyes glittering with a dangerous intensity.

Bautista's hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Rylan's hair. He yanked Rylan's head back, forcing him to look up into those merciless black eyes.

"You do not speak to my daughter. You do not even look at her. If you tell her anything about who you are and why you are here, I will end you. Do you understand?" he snarled, his grip on Rylan's hair unrelenting.

"Yes," Rylan gasped, desperately trying to maintain eye contact with Bautista despite the throbbing pain in his scalp.

"I'm not sure you do," Bautista growled, his expression dark and predatory. "Perhaps it is time you learned how to show me the respect I deserve."

As Rylan stared up at him, his heart pounding in his chest, he was aware of his proximity to Bautista's crotch. His mind played out the image for him— "Open your mouth," Bautista would say, unbuckling his belt and letting it fall to the floor with a muffled thud.

Rylan shuddered, imagining it. This was it, the moment when Bautista would finally humiliate him like that, and the thought sent a jolt of horrified arousal through him.

His lips parted, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid as he prepared himself for the degrading act that was sure to follow. He knew full well that he was completely at Bautista's mercy. "Please," he said, but it wasn't clear to him anymore if he was begging Bautista to stop or go on.

Bautista's eyes locked with his. Something seemed to shift in them. Bautista stared down at him, the anger on his face momentarily giving way to a strange expression of discomfort. A shadow passed over his features, and for an instant, Rylan could see the tiniest flicker of doubt in those dark, dangerous eyes.

"Get the fuck away from me," Bautista snarled suddenly, slapping Rylan across the face with enough force to send him sprawling across the cold, hard kitchen floor. Rylan gasped in shock, from the pain of hitting the hard tiles and from something far worse.

"Wh-what?" he stammered, trying to make sense of what had just happened as he scrambled to sit up, clutching at his aching elbow.

Bautista gave him a venomous look. And then, without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, leaving Rylan alone in the silent, sunlit kitchen.

As the sound of Bautista's retreating footsteps echoed through the house, Rylan felt the sting of the slap that still burned across his face—now accompanied by the nearly equal sting of rejection. He had wanted, needed…something. But instead, Bautista had simply walked away.

"God," Rylan whispered, hugging himself as he tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks.

What the hell was wrong with him? Why had he let himself get so worked up over the idea of being used and degraded by a man like Bautista? By anyone, for that matter?

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered, chastising himself for his foolishness. But even as the words tumbled from his lips, Rylan felt the twisted knot of bitter want in his gut.

It was real. He couldn't deny it. He was a mess, and he couldn't hide it from himself. And for all Bautista said he wanted Rylan as his slave, he was still disgusted by Rylan's very existence. This was hell. All he could hope for was that it would be over soon.